Three Dancers and No Baby

Seldom Scene

12/02/2001

It's been a so-so night at the club. My ATF is not there, and so far none of the other dancers have really grabbed my attention, or anything else.

Onstage a tall, willowy regality with piled-up hair and a diaphanous open robe sways gently like a reed in a summer breeze. She has a classical allure, like Grace Kelly when she was riding in cars with boys like Cary Grant, or Caesar's wife, or perhaps Athena in her youth. An unapproachable alabaster goddess, shimmering in the smoky distance.

There was a time in ASSC when folks used to talk about the Goddess and the One True Faith. My mind wanders...

...It was dark in the temple, as it always is. A place where the worshippers shall not be seen, the better to focus their eyes upon the unattainable perfection above them and their thoughts on the inscrutable spirit that drives them. A musty odor of yeast and vinegar arose from the dank floor, stirred up by the momentary wash of fresh air that followed me in. That breeze faltered and collapsed to the ground in short order, defeated.

I sat down.

It was early, and the priestesses were engaged in their pre-service purification rituals. Each priestess must eliminate from her mind and soul all bitterness and mundane thoughts before climbing the steps to the holy altar to minister to the faithful. While those rites are normally conducted in private, behind the warped hollow-core door of the sacristy, sometimes the need for catharsis provokes an intensity that cannot be contained by mere sheetrock and oak veneer.

Poor worshipper that I am, a chill went up my spine and I could feel the skin on the back of my neck flushing as I heard that which was not intended for the likes of me.

"....minutes late and then she asks me to take her set?? FUCK THAT!!!"

"Don't scream at ME, you bitch!!"...

There's a loud crash. I jump, awakened from my reverie, and turn to find that some clumsy slob has pulled the tablecloth off his table and with it the ashtray, a couple of empty O'Doul's bottles and the little metal thingie that holds the Shooter menu. The poor guy is crawling around on the floor, trying to pick up everything, and I turn away. There but for the grace of God go I.

By now another dancer has taken the stage. She paces, staring into the distance over the heads of the customers, her only expression, when she exhibits one at all, a vague sneer. In my pathetic boredom I begin to imagine what it might be like to be a really kewl ASS-C reviewer with a glad hand, a gimlet eye, and pals in every club....

Dud! Check out Al's Cunning Link!

 

2317 Madison Place

just off Queens Chapel Rd.

A plush-carpeted fern bar, owned by Al Connigliari, reputed to be Connected.

The bouncer will take $7.50 at the door.

Dancers range from 7-9.5. The bartender is a sweet 6' 2" ectomorph known as Gat. Tell him Seldom sent you; you'll get half-price drinks the entire night.

You'll want to stay out of the men's room; last time I was in there, toad tried to sell me two "free" passes to StarBound Entertainment for a sawbuck. When I refused, he grabbed me by the collar, thrust his 2-day bestubbled chin into my mouth, and said, "Look, buddy, it ain't MBOT, but if you don't take these tickets, I'm going to blow your pituitary gland out your medulla oblongata."

Since I never argue with desperate pre-med students, I handed over the portrait of Hamilton.

Out on the floor, I wandered toward the stage. This is an immense pile of pseudo-stone, rimmed by brilliant red neon tubes.

Onstage, a vast dancer undulated. Bored, my eyes wandered leftward, toward the guy on the stool next to me. He grinned.

"Y'know, she rotates like a tire on a loose tie-rod."

I nodded. I wasn't interested in mechanical connections.

The dancer danced. I watched. Between the two of us, less than nothing transpired.

I got up, headed toward the restroom. On my way there, I noticed a dancer, between stage shifts, leaning tiredly against the men's room doorframe. Importunate, I thought. But serendipitous. I took her hand, dragged her behind me into the mens' room....

No, no, no. I can't do it, not even in my daydreams. Sighing, and puzzled by a lingering feeling that I have somehow plagiarized that fantasy from somewhere, I rise and meander across the room to a different seat, for a different point of view. As yet another lost waif toddles up the stage stairs on wobbling platforms, I wish once again that my ATF was there. More, I wish that my ATF was a real ATF like those I had years ago, instead of the blank-eyed superheated plush toy I'm trying to make do with these days. My eyes glaze over as she appears before me, across a tiny round table we never sit at with a flickering candle-in-a-jar that is never there....

Seldom: Hey, Diamond. I'd really like to get to know you better. Would you like to stay a while, have a drink, maybe some late supper?

Diamond: I don't date customers.

Seldom: No, no, no. Not a date, that's not what I had in mind at all. I'm married, for chrissake. What I mean is..

Diamond: (arches brows) You're married? I don't see no ring on your finger.

Seldom: Right. It was too tight. It killed the skin on my finger so I used to take it off every few weeks to let the skin dry out.

Diamond: ew.

Seldom: (earnestly) And one time I took it off and left it on the dresser. It must have fallen on the floor and got sucked up by the vacuum cleaner.

[The true story: Seldom visited a prostitute in her room and for some reason felt compelled to take off his ring before getting down to

business. He forgot to put it back on. It's been gone for many years. However, the part about skin breakdown and taking it off every few weeks is true as well as fortuitously symbolic.]

Diamond: uh huh.

Seldom: So what I mean is, you and I, we've been together a few times. I always say you're the best lap dancer I've ever had.

Diamond: (sing-songy voice with smile) Thank you!

Seldom: Uh...and so...I'd like to help make it as good for you as it is for me.

Diamond: (blank stare)

Seldom: Um....jesus fucking christ what am I saying?

Diamond: I have no idea, sweetie.

Seldom: I mean, like, I'm married, right?

Diamond: Apparently.

Seldom: And I'd like to have some understanding of you, your life, your personality, so I can somehow get under your skin a little bit and wipe that robotic half-smile off your face when you're humping my cock like a goddamn power mower.

Diamond: Under my skin? YOU want to get under MY skin? Hey, muhfucker--

Seldom: Ok, Ok. Look. You're a tremendous actress, I admit--

Diamond: Damn straight I'm a tremendous actress! You have no idea.

Seldom: Please.....please. I know. Look, all I'm trying to say is, you do..you do great work. You make me feel wonderful. I'd just like to..

Diamond: You'd just like to feel even more wonderful? Maybe you'd like to feel like you're MARRIED to me or something?

Seldom: Um....uh...

Diamond: Look, honey, do you wanna dance or what? If you don't, then it's been nice chatting with ya but I gotta go.

Seldom: Sure. Okay.

Diamond: Okay what?

Seldom: Okay. Let's dance.

Seldom Scene